


Oxfords Over Brogues

by Heavenward (PreludeInZ)



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen, Kingsman AU, Not a Crossover in the strictest sense of the word, Violence, What if the boys were Kingsmen?, art fic, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7878001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their mother died, her sons had resolved to save the world from the caprice of fate, the incidents and accidents and tragedies that befell the innocent.</p><p>When their father was murdered, his boys had turned from his life's ambition, and resolved to save the world from the wicked, who preyed upon the good. Their father had been a good man.</p><p>The man who killed him had been wicked. And the four of them are closing in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. style is not the same as substance

**Author's Note:**

> So, [redemsi ](http://redemsi.tumblr.com/)over on tumblr did some fantastic art of [the boys as Kingsmen](http://redemsi.tumblr.com/tagged/kingsman/chrono), so I wrote the AU. Not complete and pretty far on the backburner, but still good and worth a read.

The four of them. Not, as it might have been, the five of them, because at five he'd been too young to lose his mother, and at fourteen he'd been too young to lose his father, and at eighteen he was too young to be an international agent in the righteous service of the only true monarchy left in the world.

So. Galahad, Percival, Gawain, Tristan.

And Alan. Alan of the private school in England, at the behest and with the influence of the Lady Penelope, an old family friend. Alan tucked away at Eton, with his untucked uniform shirts and his brilliant brain but lazy, rebellious soul. An American, at one of the most quintessentially English schools in the world, destined to be an outsider. Alan who’d been on the very cusp of being a part of something meaningful, before his father had been stolen away, and his dream of International Rescue had died in infancy.

Alan, who'd only ever wanted to be part of something greater, part of the family business.

Even if he's never known what it is.

* * *

It's an old manor in Prague, and the room is smoky and dim, all paneled in dark wood and lit not as brightly as it should be. And John is not John, but Percival, and he's at the head of the table facing an assembly of Russian gangsters. He's got a glass of mineral water while the rest of the room has glasses of vodka. This is considered the very height of rudeness, or it will be, up until the pinnacle of rudeness is pushed higher by what he says next.

"Of course, you all must understand, I'm not _actually_ selling you any guns. Not a one. The justifications are entirely professional, of course, but on a more personal note, you're all amoral dogs, morons besides, and your mothers would be _ashamed_."

The glass from which John sips his mineral water (still, not sparkling, because he's not a _child_ ) is heavy, thick crystal, and he balances it in his palm, pleased by the heft of the thing. Mentally he's comparing it to the weight of the SIG Sauer, holstered across his chest, and wondering if when one is full of water and the other is loaded with a round chambered, they're not oddly close in weight. This is the sort of abstracted thought that John tends to have, in the midst of serious discussions with Russian gangsters. He far prefers a glass in his hand to a gun.

But he continues, airily waving his other hand as eyebrows start to shoot upwards around the table. "Oh, I know, I've fabricated this entire encounter on the premise that I'm willing to supply your syndicate with high quality weaponry, but this is the trouble with the raggedy remnants of the Soviet Union---and do excuse me for bringing nationalism into it---between all the Kalashnikov knockoffs and the counterfeit Glocks and positively _antique_ Torkarevs, none of you know your way around a _real_ gun."

Rudeness aside, there's a pertinent fact that one of the mobsters around the table feels compelled to mention. "But," he says, English thick and accented, "You have already sold us the guns."

Percival smiles and raises his glass. "That's very astute, Sergei, and an excellent point. Full marks. It certainly seems like I've already sold you some very beautiful, very well made guns. But, in much the same manner as every other man at this table is wearing a suit he bought off a _rack_ , style is not the same as substance."

That's just a fact. John adores facts, lives his life in thrall of them, because facts are the heart and soul of the very best lies in the world. John's lies serve Percival well, but now it's time for the truth.

"As such, what I've _actually_ sold you--and what you gentlemen have most obligingly outfitted all your security forces with--are very slick, very _expensive_ hunks of metal, loaded with incendiary rounds, and with firing pins that were engineered to fail at a pre-arranged point in time." Percival glances at his watch. "Five minutes ago, in fact. Tell me, are any of you actually _carrying_ any of the guns I sold you?"

Several handguns and one semi-automatic machine gun are sheepishly produced, and Percival gets up, circles around the table. He's always been charming. He's always been easily, effortlessly charming, and he's coasting along on the notion that this is still part of the sales pitch, that there's another shoe about to drop. Naturally, there is. Of course there is.

"Thank you, Dmitri. Excellent choice, incidentally, if this were functional, it would be one of _my_ personal favourites." Percival picks up a handgun, performs the appropriate checks and then lifts it to the underside of his jaw. He flicks the safety off and pulls the trigger.

Nothing.

Nothing but a click, and a grin from the redhead with the gun beneath his jaw, green eyes glinting behind horn-rimmed glasses. He lowers the pistol, flicks the safety back on and returns it to Dmitri. "Thank you. _Now_ , you're all wondering why I've told you this. And thank you, all of you, for not flying off the handle in a most unseemly manner. I apologize for calling you dogs. In fact, I take that back, it was an insult to dogs. You've all been very patient. The more _crucial_ point, is that every other gun I've sold you is also wired with an internal trigger, designed to detonate the rounds inside. None of _yours_ , of course. That would be sloppy."

Percival circles back to the head of the table, produces a pen from his pocket, a lovely thing, black enamel and gold, and displays it in his long, elegant fingers. And he caresses the cap of it, his thumb lingering on the finial for the barest moment, before he clicks it.

And throughout the rest of the manor, where the thugs and lackeys and muscle of various Russian crime families are idling, waiting for the violence that's inevitable in their profession, people begin to explode and catch fire. Screaming fills the manor, and not one of the mobsters at the table moves a muscle. Most of them are actually dead.

Percival recalls another pertinent detail, surrounded as he is by the dead and the dying and his hand slaps to his forehead, absent-minded. "Oh! And I poisoned the vodka. I imagine it's kicking in about now, it's gotten dreadfully quiet in here. Unbearable substance, might as well drink rocket fuel. Next time offer me scotch. Thank you, gentlemen. It's been a pleasure to bring about the downfall of your syndicate."

Almost, anyway. The problem is, John had been drinking water. The rest of the room had been drinking vodka. Except for one man, smarter and shrewder than the others, who hadn't been drinking anything at all.

John finishes the last of his drink, adjusts his cuffs and lapels and rechecks the handgun holstered at his side. He slides the black and gold pen back into its appointed place in his breast pocket, and makes for the door. Galahad and Gawain are waiting in the courtyard, in the midst of the fire and the screaming, and the agonizing death of the worst of the criminal underworld in this part of the continent, and they'll be mopping up the last of it.

As Percival passes the foot of the table, a hand shoots out and grabs his elbow, a grip like a vice. A gun he hasn't sold is jammed into his ribs, a sharp, bruising impact.

And he's not lying his way out of this one.


	2. rain in prague

The doors of the courtyard bang open, and Galahad and Gawain whirl towards them, both moving into cover as they do so. It's Percival in the doorway, but he's not under his own authority, because Percival would _never_ bang a door open.

It's late autumn in Prague and the air is chill. It's almost unseasonably cold for late November, below freezing. Smoke and fire and blood steam in the air, and the guns that both the boys swing upwards towards the open door are hot, even through leather gloves.

There's a hand on Percival's crisp white collar, though the man with the gun to John's throat is nearly a head shorter than he is. He's a very bad man. He's a criminal, scum of the worst sort, but even bad men have friends and colleagues, and he's just seen most of them die.

And if he didn't have their brother by the collar, he would have joined them by now. But there are only four people in the entire building left alive, and as long as the mobster's got his hands on John, he's going to stay one of them.

There are steps down from the courtyard door, and Percival stumbles slightly as he's shoved down them. "Alexei, let's be _reasonable_ about this," Percival protests, still perfectly amicable, though his suit jacket is rumpled and his hair's been tousled out of place. "I'm sure we can work out some--"

There's a torrent of Russian cursing, and though John's the only one who speaks the language fluently, the tone and the phrases that Galahad and Gawain _do_ know are enough for a look to pass across the courtyard between the three of them.

"Oh, for _fuck's sake_. John and his big mouth."

That's Scott, muttering under his breath as the barrel of his handgun drops a few millimeters, but Virgil catches it anyway, and grimaces. "Three of us and one of him," he volunteers, softly, hefting the automatic rifle he's carrying higher up, bracing it at his shoulder. He's not going to take the shot, but it makes him feel a bit better.

"Yes, thank you," Galahad answers tartly, "I wasn't aware of the math."

The courtyard gates are dark, intricate wrought iron, gilded in places, with towering bronze statues flanking them. It's started to rain, drizzling from a steel grey sky, the water casting mirrors over the cobbled stones of the courtyard. John's been dragged backwards towards them, stumbling in a way that his brothers know is entirely put on, trying to stall the still muttering Russian, slow him down. Cautiously the other two follow, guns at the ready.

"Alexei," Gawain calls across the courtyard, and despite of the size of the automatic he's packing, more than either of the others, he wants this to end without further bloodshed. Even if it means permitting a very bad man to escape. "It wasn't about you, nor your associates. We want the man you work for. We cut off his supply in Eastern Europe, we want draw him out. Maybe you take us to him. Maybe we let you go. You kill our brother, and there'll be nothing _left_ of you when we get done, but there's a way for us all to walk out of here."

The string of Russian that follows is untranslatable, and unprintable besides, at least anywhere that might be seen by readers under the age of sixteen. The hand on Percival's collar yanks him painfully backward.

They're almost to the courtyard gate. Scott and Virgil are worried about their brother. Galahad and Gawain are worried about their mission.

John's been jabbed about the jaw and throat with a pistol several times, enough that he's probably picked up a few bruises. His face hurts. Percival is scheming and calculating and exists only as a persona, only as the four years worth of Kingsman training, layered over John Tracy.

The voice in his ear, hot and breathing heavily, rasps in thickly accented English, shouts to Scott and Virgil. "*You say you will take me apart, it will be nothing like what the Hood will do to you. Three of you here, you three fools, your father's pawns. Where is the little boy? You think you keep him safe? Safe in his little school in England? If _I_ know where he is--imagine who else does?"

This needs to end now. Scott's eyes have gone wide and Virgil's hands have tightened on the rifle stock, but neither of them are going to take the shot. John's the one who acts. After all, in the end, it's his decision.

Because when Virgil had said there were three of them to one, he hadn't actually been counting John. John's a hostage. He doesn't count, hasn't counted since he'd been marched out of the building with a gun to his throat.

Tristan, though. Across the street, high on the rooftop of the building opposite, watching everything that's happening, watching as a Russian mobster drags his brother backwards, towards the busy street, where he'll hail a cab---some crooked, mafia cab driver, easy enough in a city like this---and whisk John away, to be tortured and tormented and, most probably, taken away forever. The same way their father was.

It's John who throws his arm out, flashes a thumbs up, even as the mobster hooks his elbow around his throat, yanks him backward against his meaty chest. Even as Scott takes another step forward, even as Virgil's finger twitches towards the trigger.

There's the crack of a sniper rifle in answer, and the bullet goes straight through the heart a very bad man, and lodges itself in the spine of a passably good one.

And it continues to rain in Prague.


	3. appearances to be kept up

Two handfuls of polyester, rayon, and deadweight, and Virgil's heaving a brand new corpse off of his older brother. John and the man who'd had him hostage had both been thrown forward with the gunshot, and now John's face down in the rainwater, shallow though it is. He doesn't move as the dead man is pulled off of him. Virgil grunts at the weight, and shoves the ex-mobster unceremoniously onto the cobbled stones of the courtyard.

It's not raining very hard, and the dark, damp patch on the back of John's jacket isn't water. The hole in the middle of his back is smaller than it seems it should be, because there's a carbide tipped bullet lodged in between his fourth and fifth thoracic vertebrae. Armor piercing and, apparently, mobster piercing, when said mobster is armored in nothing better than a cheap polyester suit. The copper jacket is shredded in the heart of the gangster it had gone through first.

Scott's the one on his knees, brusque and deliberate, grabbing hold of John's arm and rolling him over, yanking his jacket open, fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat, disregarding the fact that John's gone pale and still and cold in the rain. His hands smooth over his brother's sodden white shirt, seeking and not finding an exit wound.

" _Jesus_ , John." Scott gets a hand beneath the back of his brother's neck, pulls him upright. John slumps against his older brother's shoulder, and Scott's holding him up, so Virgil can look. The pair of them are a tangle of long legs and water and twelve thousand dollar suits. John's glasses are askew. Virgil kneels behind him, and his blunt fingers are pressed over the bullet hole. His jaw is tight as his hand darts inside his suit jacket, pulls out a clear plastic cylinder.

He snaps it in towards the middle with both hands, and then expertly jams the point into the wound.

John goes rigid in Scott's arms, screaming, and then limp again with pain, gasping sobs into his older brother's chest, hands clenching and spasming in the fabric of his suit jacket. Scott mutters empty comfort into his ear, unheard, as Virgil grabs John's shoulder and holds him still and steady.

He depresses a plunger on the end of the cylinder. The catalyst inside the tube heats up, a dense bio-polymer foam fills the wound, hardening into pressure on the veins and arteries, immobilizing the bullet and the spinal canal around it. Virgil pulls the tip of the thing free just as the last of the compound seals tight to the outside of the wound, a perfect bandage.

There's a screech of metal on metal as the courtyard gate swings open, and Gordon's there. Still with a rifle slung over his shoulder, a literal smoking gun, and running across the courtyard, splashing water over patent leather shoes.

"Chopper's en route," he says, voice clipped and tense, staring at John as Scott shifts again, slides an arm around his brother's narrow shoulders and bears more of his weight against his chest. "Is he--?"

Virgil shakes his head, standing up and scanning the area. It's dark, darker than it should be for mid afternoon, even in the rain. There's tension all through him, and he rolls his shoulders, readies his rifle, and is Gawain again. "How long 'til extraction?"

"Two minutes." Gordon's chewing his lower lip, and his finger tips reach out, brush John's tousled red hair, damp in the rain. "Why the hell did he call the shot? I could've--"

Gawain and Galahad exchange a glance, and the elder nods in approval as the middle child takes over. So it's Gawain who gives the order, let's Scott and John continue to be Scott and John. "Call Guinevere. Lock Alan down."

And there's Tristan, momentarily shocked, but turning lifting a finger to his ear to engage his comms and make the call. He pauses for just a moment, hesitant. "Morgana too?"

"Just Gwen."

"Got it."

He moves off to make the call, and Gawain continues to scan the perimeter, listens to the sound of distant sirens. Local law enforcement should know better than to get involved, but there are appearances to be kept up. "Think he was just trying to bargain his way out? Mentioning Alan?"

"Don't know. Can't take the chance."

There's a faint, pained noise from John in Scott's arms, a dim flicker of consciousness not quite smothered by pain. There's rain splattering on the lenses in front of his eyes and his face is damp. As an afterthought Scott takes John's glasses, folds them carefully, and tucks them into the breast pocket of his opened jacket. He looks a lot younger without them.

John blinks water out of his eyes, draws a deep, shuddering breath and his lips part, every breath that follows is shallow and laboured. In spite of everything, his thoughts are the same place as everyone else's, "Al...Alan."

"We know, John. Tristan's on the line with Guinevere now."

"H-how?" He swallows and coughs and Scott's grip tightens against the way he's shaking. "We're c-careful. We're _always_ careful...w-we--"

"Shh, John. Not now."

The thrum of helicopter blades against the muted sky drowns his failing voice and Virgil lifts a hand to hail the chopper pilot, even as the 'bird starts to descend.

Scott hunches over his younger brother, shields him from the worst of the wind and the water flying up as the rotors slow and the craft lands in the courtyard. By the time he lifts his gaze to the helicopter again, John's gone slack and ragged against him once more.

Aloysius Parker, former Kingsman. Retired from active duty into supportive service, go-fer, bodyman and dogsbody. The older man opens the helicopter hatch and Virgil climbs aboard, handing over his rifle and retrieving a bodyboard from inside the helicopter's passenger bay.

And now the three of them move like clockwork, standard protocol, medical evac. They've all drilled for this before, they've all played at being injured. Half of them have actually _been_ injured, and done what was necessary to limp out of the field and back to base.

Gordon helps Scott strip John out of his suit jacket, exposes the bright red patch staining the pale grey wool of his waistcoast. The polymer foam packing the wound has darkened with blood already. Prudently, Gordon removes the gun from his brother's shoulder holster, racks the slide and ejects the chambered round, unloads the magazine. He stows the empty weapon in his waistband, and then clambers aboard the helicopter, as Virgil and Scott shift John onto the stretcher and follow.

Slotting the stretcher into place, tightening straps and lines and buckles, as Scott unpacks a medical kit from overhead. Gordon clears his throat, caught in the middle of the passenger bay, awkward. "Uh. Your turn, or mine?"

" _You_ shot him, it's _your_ turn."

"...right. Yeah, right, right. It's only fair," Gordon concedes. Virgil's already shouldered past him, climbed into the co-pilot's seat, pulling on a headset and strapping in, as Parker starts to run through the lift-off procedure in his friendly, reassuring cockney accent.

"Quite all right back there, lads?" he calls, before the thump of the helicopter blades can rise to its full volume.

"Yeah, Parker. Take us home," Scott confirms, not looking up from looking after his brother. "Gordon, you know the drill."

Gordon nods, and takes the jumpseat next to the head of the stretcher, shrugs out of his jacket and starts to roll up his sleeve. Scott's doing the same for John, swabbing a pad of cotton moistened with alcohol into the hollow of his brother's elbow, just below the cuffed sleeve of his white oxford shirt. He taps two fingers expertly along the inside of John's pale forearm to bring out a likely looking vein.

Gordon does the same, and then takes the end of the IV line he's handed. He performs a practised twist of his wrist, pierces a vein and when Scott nods, he relaxes his arm, lets the line go dark with the O-Negative he and Virgil have in common. Universal donors, both of them, and handy in a pinch.

His turn. Right. Gordon's the one who shot him, after all. It's only fair. Tentatively he puts his hand on John's shoulder, and fixes his gaze stubbornly out the window. Only fair. Really, it's the least he could do.


	4. the sort of damage that requires discretion

Alan had kicked his chair back from his desk, let the legs scrape on the floor. Called to the headmaster's office. _Again_. He'd scowled and stomped his way out of the classroom, well aware that it had been nothing he'd even done this time, probably just another talk about his _attitude_. About the exorbitant amount of money and influence it had taken to place him in one of the best schools in England, at sixteen, and about how he really should have appreciated the last two years more than he had.

There'd been counsellors. There'd been visits from his brothers, parenting by committee since their father's death. There'd been attempts to cover for the fact that they'd just ditched him, in a boarding school in a foreign country. Even though they called and visited and made the effort, it was still like their father's death had made them all strangers. Like he'd fallen out of his family, sent away and alone and abandoned, the only one of them who'd still been a child when orphaned.

So Alan slouches down the hallway, across the campus, angry the way he usually is. Just quietly angry at everyone and everything, the sort of anger that has him ignoring his schoolwork and mouthing off to his teachers and being intensely smart but defiantly lazy and indifferent. The sort of anger that's driven off anyone who might've been his friend, the sort that's labeled him a brash, uncouth American. The sort of anger that gets him in fights, consistently. The sort that has him win, though it always feels like losing.

It's not the headmaster who's waiting for him, when Alan reaches the main hall.

The Lady Penelope isn't taller than he is, not really. Alan's not sure when the "the" got appended onto the front of her name, whether or not it's some sort of joke. It's just become the way the rest of his brothers refer to her, so Alan's always followed suit, in his head. Something about the "the" adds about an inch of height. The four-inch heels are helpful too, because truthfully she's a tiny little slip of a woman. Pert, petite and blonde, lovely in the contrasting dark of some sleek piece of charcoal grey coture. Her hair is soft and smooth and cut pixie-short, combed neatly and parted to the side.

Her blue eyes travel up and down as he approaches, and he can tell she's taking in the sight of his rumpled uniform, his habitual scowl, his slumped shoulders. He's in no mood to straighten up. Especially not for Penelope--he wouldn't be in this stupid school if she weren't endlessly pulling strings to keep him here.

Lady Penelope speaks before he can, and cuts the rug right out from under him, melts his teenage anger and defiance away. "John's been hurt, Alan. Rather badly. Come along now, pet, the car's waiting." She's cool and unemotional, though her voice is gentle and not unkind. If she realizes the effect of her words on Alan, the way his blood freezes inside him, she's good enough not to let it show on her impassive, porcelain face.

Because they're all still his brothers. Even if he doesn't see them, even if they left him alone to get the education they seem to think is more important than trying to hold their family together, they're still his family. Alan's brittle outer shell covers up a softer inside, and it cracks and crumbles when harm comes to his family. And if _Penelope's_ the one who's come out to get him--not Scott or Virgil or Gordon--it must be bad. It must be _really_ bad. It must be bad enough that the other three won't leave John's side. It must be bad enough that they'll pull him out of school and back into the family.

So when Lady Penelope beckons, Alan follows her, and he doesn't ask questions. He's filled to the brim with things he doesn't know, but too afraid to ask.

* * *

Scott's waiting outside of John's room. It's not a hospital. It's a wing of Creighton-Ward manor, converted as an infirmary. The sort of damage that's been done to the people who come through this part of the quiet old English mansion is the sort of damage that requires discretion. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, poisonings. Part and parcel of the secret agent trade.

On the whole it's rather nicer than a hospital. The hallway floors are tightly fit parquet covered in richly woven rugs, the walls all dark wood. The actual rooms are much brighter, sterile, clean places, all white linen and plaster walls. But the corridors outside are dark and dim and quiet, muffled from the world outside. Safe places.

The sort of safe place where Scott can sit quietly in a wingback chair by the door fo his brother's room, where he's been ever since Merlin had passed on the word that John had woken up. The sort of place where he can be aimlessly lost in thought, not dwelling on what he's about to be told, because it's all too certain what the news will be. It's what's had Gordon take off for the nearest available pub, what had Virgil retreat to the firing range.

But the door opens. And there's Merlin, dark and dapper and with his glasses sliding down his nose, sniffling a little. He's tugged a handkerchief from the sleeve of his neat black cardigan, and he blows his nose. Scott gives him a few moments to compose himself, pretending to be intently interested in the broguing on the toes of his shoes.

He'd been insistent, their dear old friend, on being the one to give John the news. He'd been the one, after all, who'd had the scalpel in hand, the surgeon's mask, the gloves. He'd seen the damage done, and known exactly what it meant. As far as Merlin had been concerned, it was his responsibility to shoulder; telling John that he wasn't ever going to walk again.

"W-well. Th-the good news is h-he took it well." There's a tremor of emotion in Merlin's voice, amping up his usual slight stammer, but the worst of it has past. His eyes are a little bloodshot and he still holds onto his hanky, but he sighs and gives Scott a nod towards the door. "A-as well as might be expected. I think perhaps it hasn't quite hit him yet, I was the one who did more falling apart. I'm just so t-terribly sorry."

"We all are," Scott agrees, somber. "Gordon's going to tear himself to pieces. But John knew exactly what he was doing, and it's the damnedest thing. Only Gordon would've pulled the trigger."

There's a moment's hesitation. "He had to have known he wouldn't kill him," the engineer volunteers, tentative, as though he's hoping for confirmation. Merlin is the brains of the outfit, the quartermaster. He knows guns in the abstract, knows gadgetry and clever devices. He put a wifi router into Virgil's tie for a lark. But the number of times he's actually fired a gun can be counted on one hand.

Scott shrugs. "No way to _know_. I don't think so, anyway, it doesn't matter how good you are. And Gordon is very, _very_ good. But there's always some variable you don't count on. I wouldn't have made the shot."

This is the territory where discussion gets difficult. Merlin's always had a hard time parceling it out, separating the idea of what the boys do from the reality of what gets done to them as a result. He glances at the door and sighs, heavy and sad. "P-poor John."

Poor John indeed. Scott looks at his shoes one more time. "Was there bad news?" he asks, as an afterthought, because Scott's job is to ask after the bad news. "You said the good news was he took it well. Was there bad news?"

And another apologetic pause. "Yes, I s-suppose so. The b-bad news is, he's awake and he wants t-to see you."


	5. the same argument they've always had

The room is all white plaster and linen, all cool sterility. The window has gauzy white curtains shading the sight of the English countryside. It's quiet and cool and peaceful. Better than that, it's highly, highly secure. Scott's glad for a little security, after the day they've had.

John's the only colour in the room, an ember in the midst of soft white ash. And he opens green eyes to Scott in the doorway, twitches his fingers on the blanket beside him in a feeble greeting towards the only big brother he has. "Galahad." There's a slight slur in his voice, the last dregs of morphine he'd had Merlin turn off. "You'll excuse me not getting up. Circumstances make it challenging."

Scott shakes his head at his brother, still with the mouth on him. That's always been John's gift, words. Words of wit and banter and charm, filling the space he needs to kill a person. Words with lethal edges. If you let John get a word in, you're as good as dead. The way to head John off is to keep him from talking. Or, failing that, to keep him from talking at length. "Ten minutes, John."

"Til what?"

"Until I turn the drugs back on." Scott approaches the bed, sits at the edge of it. "So what is it?"

"I need a clear head."

"No one expects you to have a clear head, you've been shot through the spine. Talk fast and don't expect me to take you seriously just because you've made the grand and melodramatic gesture of dialing down the morphine."

Another flutter of his long, pale fingers, dismissive. The younger of the pair tries and fails to shift slightly in bed, propped halfway up against the mattress, and Scott looks away from the pain that writes itself across John's features at the cost of the action. John at least has the decency to sound tired when he asks, "Where's Alan?"

Scott meets his brothers gaze, steady and reassuring. If that's all it is, then he can at least put his brother's mind at ease. "Safe. The Lady's got him well in hand. They're driving up, it'll be a few hours. You'll see him when you wake up." This implies that very shortly John will be sleeping, which Scott will personally make certain is the case.

"And tell him what?" There's a faintly accusing note in John's tone, though Scott knows him well enough to know when belligerence masks pain. "I didn't do this so we could keep lying to him."

Ah. So that's where this is going.

And that things are going this way ellicits a long, low groan from Scott, and he glances at his watch. "We've been having this argument for years. You think you can win it in the next eight and a half minutes? John, for god's sake. Let it lie. _You_ , especially, let it lie. We're taking care of Alan, we always have. We said when we started, we'd keep him safe."

"And now he's _not safe_."

Scott knows what was said. It was said right into John's ear with a gun to his throat, so maybe it's been repeating in John's head. In any case, he seems to have taken it to heart, bright green eyes boring into Scott's skull, laser sights. Scott still sighs and shakes his head, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers loosely knit together between them. He's tired. "It was an empty threat from a desparate man, John."

"You _know_ it fucking well wasn't." John's voice is tight, clipped, his gaze is intent. "I _make_ people desparate. I make people make threats. I know what it sounds like when you push a man far enough that he'll grasp at nothing. _This wasn't nothing_. 'Safe in his little school in England', I _know_ you heard that."

Scott still pauses, still tries to soften his tone and gentle his brother, "Johnny, listen, you've been through a hell of a lot. Don't--"

He's cut off, and it's more than just the bullet in his spine that gives his voice an edge, raw and absent his usual layer of dry, detached charm, "Scott, for Christ's sake. Pity me, don't insult me. On the strength that this may be the last chance I get to _have_ this argument without a skull full of opiates, you might do me the favour of listening. _Please_."

Scott backs down. Immediately and unreservedly. Because the sudden vehemence has clearly cut like a knife through the last of the painkillers already in his system, and John's gone a shade paler, and sagged against the pillows, with clenched teeth and closed eyes. "Sorry. I'm sorry, John." A long pause without an answer eats up a full twenty-seconds of the time John has left to talk. Softly, still watching, Scott asks, "You okay?"

Green eyes blazing at him again, brighter now, gleaming in a way they weren't before he'd raised his voice. " _No_. I've been fucking shot and I'll never walk again, I'm not fucking okay." He takes a deep breath, and though it hitches a bit in the middle, seems to steady slightly, and then says the thing Scott's been waiting to shoot down, "You have to bring Alan in."

"No."

Because that was the one thing they'd agreed on, when Penelope had approached them with the offer. When they'd asked her, quietly and privately, to look into their father's death, and she'd told them she already had. And that she knew who'd killed him, because he had, very definitely, been killed. And that, if they were willing to offer their service in trade, she could give them the tools and the skills and the resources, to find the man who'd done it.

And so, Galahad, Percival, Gawain and Tristan.

And Alan.

Alan, safely away at one of the premier colleges in Britain, the place where the Kingsmen draw a great number of their lower ranks, recruiting minor agents into various positions in industry, business, society and government. Where there was safety and security for the youngest member of the family, the only other condition his brothers had asked, before swearing their service and taking their new names. Just that Alan stay safe, that Alan stay Alan.

Scott knows it, John knows it. And they've had it out a dozen times, whether or not it's fair, whether or not it's right to shut Alan out. It's the same old fight, the same argument they've always had, about Alan.

And in a perfect world, that would be the end of it. But John's still got four minutes left to talk.

So this time, maybe not the same old argument.

John musters his voice again, and Scott has to keep himself from flinching, because it's halting now, pained. "We sold our collective souls for our shot at the man who killed Dad. And we pretend we kept Alan out of it for his own sake--for his _safety­_ \--but it's not that. It isn't and it never has been. It's--we think there's some sort of _absolution_ in keeping Alan away from all this. Whatever we do, whatever happens to us is _fine_ , as long as it doesn't touch Alan."

"Well, how else are we supposed to go on?" Scott's voice is tiring in answer, and he rubs the palms of his hands in his eyes, nursing a tense, emotional headache. "You want Alan leading this life? _Really_? With everything that's different, all the ways we've changed--you still want to bring Alan in? You _remember_ what Gordon used to be like, John, I know you do. I _still_ hate that we brought Gordon in."

John avoids the thrust to the heart, parries it neatly with reason and common sense and the words Scott never should have let him get in edgewise. "Things changed. And they've changed again. I'm trying to tell you we don't _have_ a choice, Alan's already in it. 'Safe in his little school in England'. Isn't that just playing over and over again in your head? _He_ knows about Alan. _He_ knows he can get at us through him. What he doesn't know is that we've been warned. And _I_ know what happened to Gordon. Gordon turned into the sort of person who'd shoot me in the back if I told him to, and thank Christ he did, because we couldn't let it get back through the criminal underworld that _we_ know _he_ knows about Alan."

"We're pulling him out of school. We'll lock him down, we'll keep him--"

There's another dogged shake of John's head, something almost a growl, defiant. " _No_. You remember when he bailed out of school last semester, ran away? We had helicopters, we had dogs, we had a full scale manhunt. We tore half the English countryside apart looking for him, because he never knew how much goddamn danger he'd put himself in. _That's_ what's worst of all this--he doesn't even know he's in danger--and you _know_ how dangerous it is to be oblivious."

Scott's losing. He doesn't want to, but he's losing, because John's lethal with words. "He's still just a kid."

John shakes his head. "No. We think he is, but he's not. He's different every time I see him, and he's _angry_ , Scott. God, he's angry. He's changed too. We're trying to hold onto Alan, because I think maybe we _need_ him to be just a kid. We can't. We just _can't_ anymore, Scott. I really think it might get him killed."

Scott realizes he hasn't seen his brother look this broken since they lost their father. He feels the impulse to reach out to him, but absent the drip of morphine into his veins, with a little plastic clamp clipped to the IV line, Scott's afraid to hurt him. John's time is almost up, maybe a minute more, maybe two.

And then, faltering, voice breaking. "I know we always thought we'd keep him safe. But for my part, I _can't_. Not any longer. I couldn't even get out the _door_ if I had to. I'm as good as useless. It's over for me, and I'll come to grips with that in my own time, but--"

It's Scott's turn to interrupt and he does, insistently trying to smother his brother's fears about the future. John so very rarely needs an older brother. "Don't worry about that. C'mon, I meant it. I wasn't trying to be trite, you've been through a hell of a lot, John, and--listen, we'll figure it out, about Alan--and you can worry about _yourself_ , for a while. Please. It's not over, John. I promise it'll be all right."

"You've gotta do _something_ , Scott. _I_ can't. I can't protect him anymore. I can't do _anything_ for Alan, except to ask you to let him learn to take care of himself. That's it. That's all I've got. And, God, if it counts for anything, if I have to ask you on _my_ behalf, then just--just give me one less thing to worry about."

Apparently there's a level of brokenness beyond what Scott's already seen from John, because he sees it now. Sees his brother drop his face and fold his hands and the pain he's in radiates off him like heat. And he sounds quiet, defeated and pleading, when he finally says, " _Please_. I'll tell him. I'll tell him everything, I know it'll be hard. But I can do that. If I do one last thing for him, it could be that."

And Scott, ten minutes after the argument had started, finally nods in answer, "Okay, Johnny."

The argument won, all the words falter and fade out of John. He's visibly diminished as he nods back, sinking back into his pillows and closing his eyes. "Y-yeah. Good. O-okay. Okay. Thank you. Scotty. Thanks."

Scott only nods, as he rises and reaches out to undo the little plastic clamp secured to his brother's IV line. And then softly promising, as he brushes a hand gently through John's ginger gold hair, "He'll be here when you wake up."


	6. the caliber of the lady

You take the shot you have. You don't wait for a better one, because you won't get it. You take the shot you have, and you kill a man and you cripple your brother for life. And maybe a tiny little part of you wishes you could have killed _him_ , too, instead of having to see him in a wheelchair from now until the end of his days.

Which, probably, will be greater in number than yours.

And another part of you wonders when you became the sort of person who could wish that he'd killed his brother, and resolves to drown that first part, with chilling expertise, in rich black Guinness and shots of Irish whiskey.

But it's slow going. 

Gordon's found the smallest, seediest, shittiest little pub possible, and he's hunched himself in the corner, and the barman isn't what one would call attentive. So he's only two shots and a pint and a half in, because Gordon doesn't actually like Guinness _or_ whiskey. But his whole life is in shades of black and gold now, and it had just seemed appropriate.

It's dim enough in the bar that the slice of late afternoon sunlight that cuts through the dark as the door opens is just more gold on black.

The woman whose shadow cuts the line of light in half is equal parts light and dark herself. Skin like silk and eyes like sapphires, hair of spun pale gold, cut short. And a dress of darkest black, darker than the room around her, darker than the work she does, but just barely. The barman hasn't noticed him, but she does, and she crosses the room in her sleek black Louboutins, bloody red beneath her feet, stiletto heels clicking like a magazine being snapped into an automatic.

Gordon belongs, heart and soul, to the Lady Penelope. Long before Tristan was sworn into her service, Gordon had wanted to be her knight. And it could've been Virgil who'd come to fetch him, Virgil who would have sat down and had a few drinks and clapped him on the shoulder and said whatever it is Virgil says in these situations. Or it could've been Scott, who'd be all decorum and nobility and the greater good, and he'd make something as heinous as shooting your own brother in the back sound like it had been the right thing to do.

But it's her. And she sits down across the booth, and reaches her cool, slender fingers out for his, squeezing gently in greeting.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" he asks, with that smile that doesn't reach his eyes any longer, and he peers at her over the horn-rimmed lenses he doesn't actually need to see.

"It's a nicer place than I am a nice girl, love." A cockroach skitters out from under the table, and Penelope spears it beneath the heel of her shoe, makes her point.

Gordon manages another half swallow of dark, bitter stout, and pulls a face, before he shoves the glass across the table to her. "Cheers, then. Leave the ettiquette at the door."

"Cheers," she answers softly, and finishes his drink.

There's something astonishingly sexy about the way she drinks a half-pint of beer, something about the way her throat moves, the way her dark-lashed eyes half-close as she swallows. For a moment he forgets about the day he's had, as the last of the creamy foam from the bottom of the glass touches her lips.

"Did you get Alan?"

Lady Penelope nods and her fingertips linger on the rim of the pint glass, spinning it slowly. There's no coaster beneath it, there's condensation puddled on the rough wooden tabletop. "The car's bringing him on, up to the manor. He's frightfully worried about John, and of course I had nothing to tell him, I don't know how much you four want him to know, just yet. Poor lamb, he hardly said a word. The only thing he asked was that we stop for flowers." 

"Good ol' Alan."

"Quite." Penelope smiles fondly. "He _is_ a dear little creature, isn't he?"

Gordon grins in spite of himself. Good old Alan. Good old Alan had thrown every book in his room at Gordon, the last time he'd been there for a visit. There'd been a shouting match that had gotten Gordon escorted off the premises. Alan had called and apologized, afterward, tearful and ashamed, and just wishing he weren't so _mad_ all the time. Dear little Alan. "Well, he's little, anyway."

She smiles, lets him have the moment of humor, and then her hand crosses the table to take his again. "You know I'm not here to talk about Alan, love."

"Yeah." He lifts his gaze, meets those sapphire eyes. "But is it Guinevere or is it Penny who wants a word?"

He doesn't get to find out, there's a rusty "aheh-hm" from the barman, the first attention he's given Gordon in about half an hour. He blinks at Lady Penelope, squints at her, as though he's not quite certain she actually exists. Given the caliber of the lady and the quality of her surroundings and the age and general dimness about the proprietor, it's not as though this is entirely unreasonable.

"Regulars're due soon. Might be y'wanna clear out."

"There's only two of us. We take up one booth," Gordon objects, irritated at the rudeness of being interrupted, and further, of being asked to leave for no discernible reason.

The barman shrugs and swipes ineffectually at the top of the bar. "Suit y'selves."

The door opens, and the light outside has gone ruddy red with the beginnings of sunset, and the shadow that crowds the light is an amalgum of a rough and tumble knot of men, loud, rough voices and the same rusty accent as the bartender, letters dropping off the ends of words all over the place.

The light falls across the table between Gordon and Lady Penelope, and Gordon's been inside long enough that he has to lift a hand and rub his eyes beneath his glasses at the sudden brightness. When he looks up again, there's a cluster of men hanging near the booth, grinning-- _leering_ \--down at the Lady Penelope, who's popped open her compact and started to reapply her lipstick, and paid no mind to the two, three _four_ men who've gathered in the booth behind theirs.

Gordon interrupts before the sort of comments that go along with gaggles of leering men, freshly off work and in the presence of a woman like Penelope. Nothing she needs to hear is about to be said. So he cuts them off. "Dudes. Personal space, much? Maybe back off the Lady?"

These are clearly not the sort of people who listen for capital letters, as applied to the word _Lady_. So for a moment, attention is diverted from the slender lily of a woman sat across for him, and Gordon finds himself being leered at instead. Oh, _this_ is leering. Previously it was ogling. Right. Important distinction. Both predatory, the latter far more malicious. "What, you reckon as we got a problem here, Yank? Ain't even said nothin', 'ave we? Was only gonna ask the lady if we might buy 'er a drink, yeah? You don't mind that, eh love? Better'n this fuckin' weed you got yourself with, c'mon. We gotta have a problem?"

Penelope's compact snaps closed and of all the pairs of eyes that are fixed on him now, hers are the ones Gordon meets. "Tristan," she warns, with that voice that's quiet and neutral and as dire as death, saying that name that isn't his.

But fuck it, though. 

"Had a rough day, Pen," Gordon answers softly, and shuts out their audience just the same way as she is. He takes off the glasses he doesn't need and sets the upside down on the table, doesn't bother to fold them, just rubs at his eyes. They're tired and they sting a little, mostly from the low light and the smoky atmosphere. "You think I can do too much more damage here than I already have, today?"

Penelope's gaze is unwavering, but the man who's been carrying the conversation so far jostles the table with his knee, then kicks the leg and shoves it so it catches Gordon in the ribs, pushes him back against the booth, pins him against the old, cracked leather. "Maybe it's _you_ she ain't wanna talk to, posh _American_ bastard. Eh? You thinka that? _Rough day_?" the man's tone is simpering, mocking and unsympathetic. "I done fourteen hours on the docks, y'fuckin' poof. Piss off."

"Gentlemen, really," Penelope intercedes, before Gordon can get another word in. "We'd best be on our way."

The ring leader's ankle hooks around the table leg, yanks it back and lets Gordon loose again. But he gets a hand underneath the lip of it, yanks it out and at a sharp angle, closes Penny off, even as she stands. "He c'n go," the man says gruffly. "You stay a minute, 'ave that drink. C'mon, luv. Less you're one of those fuckin' dykes, hair like that? Still. Take our chances."

If Gordon were on his feet, he'd be shorter by half a head than the man who's menacing Lady Penelope. Penny's only a hair shorter than Gordon is, even if six inches of her is parisian leather heels. "Penelope," he entreats, one last time. She can handle this. She can deescalate the whole situation at a word, she and John have that in common--as they should. She's the one who taught John everything he knows. 

Not that it matters, anymore, what John knows.

Maybe that's why she sighs and sits back down. "Oh, go on then," resignedly. "Get it out of your system."

Gordon doesn't need to be told twice. He grabs the back edge, jerks the table away from the wall, and flips it.


	7. principles of motion economy

There are a lot of charitable words for the way Gordon’s built. Compact, wiry. Athletic. Sturdy. He’s heard them all before, usually in his head in front of a mirror. Short. Yeah, all right, he’ll grant that he’s on the short side, though at 5'9" he’s not that much shorter than average. Scrawny. That’s just a lie. So he’s not as cut as Virgil is, nor as toned as John, but he’s not whip thin like Scott or shrimpy like Alan. Scrawny’s an insult.

Granted, there are other ways to measure these things, than just by how Gordon stacks up against his brothers. That’s just old habit. And by the metrics available, Penny’s the only person present who he’s got any height or weight on. There are still four of them. And they’re all broader, taller, and just generally  _bigger_ than Gordon is.

But there’s a very specific sort of high that goes along with an unfair fight. Gordon’s a little bit hooked on unfair fights. Especially the sort of unfair fight that’s not unfair in his favour.

Four on one sounds about right.

The table’s still up on its end when Gordon’s foot finds the underside of it, carries it the rest of the way over. It’s heavy, old. Cheap. In spite of its age or maybe because of it, the wood of the top splits with a sharp crack. It falls apart in halves as the thugs on the other side of it go scrambling back, away from Gordon, disbelieving.

Gordon _lives_ for disbelief. Glories in the moments before people realize what he’s capable of, realize that he’s a hell of a lot of talk, but he’s never once in his life said anything he couldn’t back up.

He steps over the wrought iron legs of the up-turned table, broken in halves. His fingers find the cuffs of his shirt beneath his jacket, tweak them so his wrists feel loose in the sleeves. There are two pistols beneath his jacket, a compact little Beretta, and a beefier SIG Sauer. Neither will come into play, but he’d be off balance without them. At the back of his mind, he wonders when that became true.

“Can’t stand how rude you Brits are, sometimes. I get all this crap for being an American, when I work my ass off being polite, and people like _you_ are the ones who give it to me,” Gordon announces, in that awful, deceptively bright voice he has, sometimes. Especially when he’s teetering on the leading edge of an unfair fight. There’s still time for it not to happen. Honestly, all he’d wanted was for them to back off Penny. They’ve backed off Penny. “With that in mind, is there anyone who’d like to offer the Lady an apology?”

Gordon can _suggest_ a fight. He can nudge at the idea of one, poke at it, prod it carefully into position. But he very rarely actually _starts_ things. It wouldn’t be mannerly. And he’s supposed to be a gentleman now. 

“You _filthy_ little–” The ringleader lunges, lurches towards Gordon.

And _there_ it is. There’s a singsong little voice in the back of his brain, the one that keeps singing “Had to shoot my brother in the back today, what do you think I’ll do to _you_?” In the space of a moment of impending violence, it erupts into a chorus of joy and rapture, and Gordon drops beneath the surface of it, immersed.

An arm swings back–wide, uncoordinated, the sort of flailing embarassment that’s visible from a mile away. And Gordon smiles, _really_ smiles, for the first time since he’d lodged a bullet in his brother’s spine.

Put a paintbrush in Virgil’s hands and he’s an artist. Tape up Gordon’s fists and he is, too.

Economy of movement. Gordon doesn’t duck, he dodges, darts a few inches back from the fist that swings at his face. Never do more than you have to. Never expend more energy than necessary. Efficiency. There’ve been studies done. Gordon’s read them.

## Principles of motion economy

_The principles of motion economy can be classified into three groups: Principles related to the use of human body, Principles related to the arrangement of the work place, Principles related to the design of tools and equipment._

**_Use of the Human Body_ **

  * _The two hands should begin motions at the same time._



Gordon’s answering uppercut is one half the equation. The bodyblow on the followthrough is the other half, a taut, restrained fist meeting a sallow, reedy chest. This scrawny bastard has about a foot of height on Gordon. This is a personal insult.

  * _The two hands should not be idle at the same time except during rest periods._



Right, _left_ –stronger on the left, his dominant hand. Right again, from the shoulder, then his left snatching the back of the bastard’s neck, and his right knee up, the crack of a jaw against the place just above his kneecap.

  * _Motions of the arms should be made in opposite and symmetrical directions and should be made simultaneously_



Left hand shoving the first unfortunate soul to the floor, while the right shoots up to catch the wrist, attached to a hand holding a beer bottle, arcing towards his face. They say empty bottles hit harder than full ones. This, obviously, is a myth, though one Gordon has still tested extensively.

  * _Hand motions should be confined to the lowest classification with which it is possible to perform the work satisfactorily_ :
    * _Finger motions_ –wrenching his fingers around the second thugs wrist, twisting the skin visciously– 
    * _Wrist motions_ –snapping his own wrist, yanking the man’s arm down and back, against the fullness of its range of motion–
    * _Forearm motions_ –and a short, sharp jab as the beer bottle slips loose and crashes to shatter on the floor, Gordon’s hand clamped tight around the wrist and solid, as he cracks his reinforced fist against the man’s face– 
    * _Upper arm motions_ –it undoes all the tension in his bicep, how satisfying it is to come all the way to the end of the blow, to feel the grind of bone beneath his knuckles, busting and bruising already even as– 
    * _Shoulder motions_ –Gordon puts his _shoulder_ into it, fires the punch from so far back it was _behind_ him, and there’s a satisfying snap of this second brute’s face, as the right hook comes to its knockout conclusion.


  * _Momentum should be employed to assist the worker whenever possible, and it should be reduced to a minimum if it must be overcome by muscular effort._



Gordon follows him to the floor, throws himself diving forward, tucks and rolls, springs to his feet behind the remaining two thugs. There’s a certain undignified fumbling in their pants and jackets for weaponry. A knife appears, a pair of brass knuckles. Gordon grins, jackal.

  * _Smooth continuous motions of the hands are preferable to zigzag motions or straight-line motions involving sudden and sharp changes in direction._



Knuckles first, knife second. Technically the knife-wielder is the priority target, but he’s still scrambling with the leather sheath on the blade, and Gordon’s not scared of brass knuckles. The fist that they’re wrapped around is thick and meaty and slow, and Gordon’s slipped under it, wedged his frame into the space between Knuckles’ arm and his chest. And he _shoves_ , sends the larger man staggering backward to impact the wall with a meaty wheeze as he slams into some piece of decorative sculpture. Put a pin in that, for now. Priority targets.

**_Arrangement of the Work Place_ **

  * _There should be a definite and fixed place for all tools and materials._  



Gordon doesn’t like a fight to be _quite_ as unfair as knives to his bare hands, and one can’t have a bar without barstools– 

  * _Tools, materials, and controls should be located close in and directly in front of the operator_.



 –he kicks the nearest one into kindling with a sharp, well calculated strike of his foot, and–

  *     _Materials and tools should be located to permit the best sequence of motions._



–he’s got a short, sharp cudgel now, and he parries the slash of the knife towards his ribcage expertly. Parry, thrust, riposte. 

  *    _Arrange the height of the workplace and chair for alternate sitting and standing, when possible._  



And a rapid drop backward, landing square on his ass, as the knife goes jabbing towards his face. Gordon’s not _stupid_. He’s brought a stick to a knife fight, and he’d rather not be having a knife fight. Not when he’s tacitly given his word that he won’t be bringing out the guns in answer. 

  * _Provide a chair of the type and height to permit good posture._



Gordon abandons the leg of the barstool in favour of the leg of a chair, and flips this, grabs the top rail of it, and slams the legs of it into the knifeman’s chest. Shoves him staggering backward as he regains purchase, lunges to his feet.

**_Design of Tools and Equipment_ **

  * _Combine tools whenever possible._  



He swings the chair up, reverses his grip on it midair, and cracks it across the knifeman’s back, slams him face forward into a table with a gory crack of a broken, bloodied nose. 

  * _Preposition tools and materials._  



And Knuckles, bless him, the biggest, broadest bastard of the lot, comes wheezing back into the fight, staggering. Gordon grabs him by the arm and yanks him bodily to trip over the upturned table– 

  * _Momentum should be used to help the worker in doing their task not to increase their task._  



–and with a practiced half-running bounce, he boosts himself like a gymnast onto Knuckles’ broad back, and all one hundred and sixty-four scrawny pounds of Gordon rides his last opponent the short distance flat to the floor.

And for a few moments he just breathes hard in the silence

* * *

 

Penelope extricates herself delicately from the carnage at her feet, crosses the room in her murderously high heels. Her hand on his arm drains the fight out of him like water, leaves him empty and wrung out and shivering a little, aftershocks of adrenaline.

“Feel better?” she asks, soft and kind and nicer, no matter what she says, than the place she’s in now, standing next to him.

And his smile is empty again, and his answering laugh is hollow, as her arm slides around his waist and he presses his face against her short golden hair. “God. Ha. No. No, not even a little.”


	8. a muted, steel grey sky

He doesn't know how flowers are supposed to help. It seems especially stupid that he hadn't been able to think of anything to do but bring flowers. Alan's not even sure if they're nice flowers, he'd just ducked into the florist's little shop in the small village's high street and muttered at the girl behind the counter that his brother was in the hospital.

So she'd gathered up soft white lilies and bright blue delphinium, like the sunny blue skies you never got over England. She'd interspersed these with creamy yellow roses, cheerful, and wound the whole thing round with white satin ribbon, and tucked it into a paper sheath.

Alan had stuffed his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled trousers, been self-conscious about his untucked shirt and crooked tie, and watched her nod in sympathy when he asked if she'd write something nice on the card, because he couldn't think of anything. Her handwriting had been appropriately floral and with lovely slim upstrokes and slanting, calligraphed downstrokes. And a simple, poetic sentiment from someone who was probably a professional at the sort of sentiments that were needed by brothers in hospitals---"Thinking of you. Be well."

Alan's not sure why he couldn't have thought of that. It repeats in his head and he runs his fingers over the stiff, smooth little piece of cardstock, embossed with flowers.

There's no Scott, no Virgil, no Gordon to escort him through the dark and quiet old manor, once the car's pulled up and left him at the front. Instead it's a bespectacled young man in a turtleneck, who introduces himself as Merlin, and then goes onto explain that it's a nickname. Alan hadn't asked and doesn't really care, he just shrugs and shifts the bouquet of flowers he carries from one hand to the other.

This isn't a hospital. Even as he's led deeper and deeper into the manor house, Alan's got a sick, twisting feeling inside, a deeply buried memory of the hospice where their mother had died. The same quiet hallways, the same heavy sense of solemnity hanging over the place, as they come to tall double doors, leading into the east wing. A nurse in a crisply starched white uniform passes them in a hallway of closed doors and the man called Merlin gives her a nod.

The door they come to has a nameplate slotted into it, and a chart beneath it. Gold letters on black enamel read "Percival", no last name. Alan's not sure why they've stopped here, but Merlin indicates a chair beside the door and for the second time he summons up a rather shy, stammering voice, "I'm j-just going to look in on him first, see how he is. H-have a seat if you'd like."

And there's the slight creak of a door handle and a glimpse of sterile, hospital white, before Merlin slips into the room and shuts the door behind him, and then Alan's alone in the hallway.

He wishes he weren't alone. Soon enough, he won't be, but he doesn't want that either. Doesn't want to be alone with John, when he can't help staring at the chart on the door, and the long column of medications scheduled, A- blood plasma and antibiotics and morphine, morphine, morphine. No one's told him what's happened. Lady Penelope had said he would hear from his brothers, but none of his brothers are here, except John.

The door opens again and this time Merlin holds it open and Alan hesitates on the threshold. The door still blocks his view of the head of the bed, though he can see soft hills beneath the blankets, John's feet and legs up to the knees. "He's asleep."

"What happened?" Alan asks, before he can bring himself to step into the room, and then there's a whispered torrent of all the questions he hasn't been able to bring himself to ask. "I-is he okay? Where're my brothers, where's Scott and Virg and Gordon? No one told me what happened, was it a...a car accident, or...or is it something else?" Alan's voice drops further and he asks about the thing he's really afraid is true. "Is John gonna die?"

Merlin blinks at him owlishly from behind dark rimmed glasses and then a comforting hand finds Alan's shoulder, squeezes gently. "No, c-certainly he's not dying. Ah...you, ah. You aren't familar with your brothers' line of work, and I'm afraid it's not up to me to specify---suffice it to say it was something that happened in the course of the sort of business John does."

Nothing about that is a sufficient explanation, but Alan's left alone with his brother anyway.

Alan puts his little bouquet of flowers in a pitcher of water by the window, but can't bring himself to sit down next to his brother, still peaceful and drifting just below the surface of awakeness, courtesy of whatever's dripping into the inside of his arm. The chair looks plush and comfy, but it's too close to the edge of the bed and even just being in the room with John in this state is making Alan anxious.

He can't remember the last time he'd seen John---he has to pace around the room, moving so he can keep thinking, and cast his brain back towards the Christmas break before last---a whole _year_ ago---when John had been the one to pick him up at the end of term.

John's the one Alan talks to. John's always been the best listener, always been the most sympathetic to Alan's situation, how lonely and isolated he is. It's not that the other three _aren't_ sypmathetic---it's just that John's got a way of really hearing people, when they talk. John's the one who's always just let Alan say what he has to, never argued with him or tried to talk him out of what he'd felt. John's the one who's always promised to talk to Scott. Alan has no doubt that John's done so. But apparently for all that he's a good listener, John's just not persuasive enough to sway Scott out of what he thinks is best.

Alan's wished, more than once, that it could've been John instead of Scott who'd been given legal guardianship over the rest of Alan's miserable adolescence. John just seems like he'd _listen_ , like he'd let Alan back into the family again. Maybe this is an opportunity. Maybe John needs somebody, whatever it is that's laid him up, maybe he'll be laid up for a while. Maybe that's why the others are all off somewhere else, because John wants to talk about this privately. John's very private. Maybe---maybe there's a silver lining. Maybe Alan will finally get to come home again.

He's gotten himself convinced that this is the case, and he still paces the room. It's excitement now, instead of worry, it's just the thought that maybe his brother's got an apartment in London or something. Nothing like the home they left behind, but somewhere that Alan doesn't have to share with four poncy, snotty English prats. Whatever business John does, maybe he'll do it from home now. Alan's missed his family, ached for his family, and if he had to pick just one of them to have back in his life, it would be John.

This is, at least, until he catches a glimpse of a folder on a table beside the bed, and a sliver of grey plastic poking out the top. He's always been a curious kid, and it's not like it's marked confidential or anything. Alan's getting bored, even in the mental landscape where he and his brother go out for a movie on occasion and Alan gets taught how to drive. He hadn't had the chance to grab a book, hadn't thought of asking anybody for one. He picks up the file, flips it open, and squints at an x-ray.

He has to read the name on the corner of it, the date, the time. He has to read them again (making note of the word [PERCIVAL] again, bracketed and inexplicable). Then he has to take the sheet of darkened film out of the file and hold it up in front of the window---with its muted, steel-grey sky over the English countryside, but still bright with clouded over sunlight---to be sure of what he's seeing.

There's a bullet lodged in John's spine. A _big_ bullet. Alan's not a doctor, but there's been some horrifying damage done, and he wouldn't even have _guessed it_ , from the way his brother's just lying there. Still and quiet. Still. Awful, _awfully_ still.

And then, suddenly, not.

Because there's slight rustle of blankets, a faint cough and then, "It's terribly rude, Al, staring at some poor bastard who hasn't even got his _skin_ on. All kinds of things someone might want to keep private. Very impolite. Thought we'd raised you better."

Alan turns, still clasping the x-ray in trembling hands, and meets his brother's vivid green eyes. He's smiling, in spite of the fact that apparently there's a bullet lodged in his spine. Alan's brain is whirling off kilter, dipping down into a bizarre reality where his brother would've gotten---he can barely _think_ it, it just makes so little sense---how John could've _possibly_ been anywhere that---where he could've---"Johnny, did you get _shot_?"

A little boy who's only in the room long enough to ask a question asks Alan's question for him.

"Yeah, Al."

This sinks in softly, slowly, and Alan can't help but be drawn over to the bed, into the big wingback chair, and next to his brother, wide-eyed. "Who---what, _how_? Why?"

It's so improbable, so hard to track the fact that John's been shot with the fact that John's still smiling, with ever-so-slightly dialated pupils betraying the opioids still in his system. "That's all the questions. Oh, except for where. It was Prague. Rains in Prague, this time of year, absolutely frigid. Terrible place to be shot." He pauses a moment, blinks a bit owlishly and then, as an afterthought. "Oh, unless you meant...? In the back. Also a terrible place to be shot."

Alan gapes at him and wants to call a nurse, a doctor, that glasses guy---one of his _brothers_. "John, what _happened_? What the hell happened, are you gonna be okay? Where the hell is everybody, why were you in Prague? And w-why...why would anybody _shoot_ you?"

This sobers him a little, but only a little, just enough to dim the smile on his face, and darken some of the levity in his tone. "It's funny you'd ask, Alan. Actually, it was mostly because of you."


End file.
